Golden Autumn
by illuminata79
Summary: This is the sequel to "Early Days", exploring further how Mick and Evelyn try to find their way into a "normal" life.
1. Golden Autumn

This is set shortly after "Early Days". This time I wanted Mick and Evelyn to enjoy a pleasant time together, even if the shadow of Mick's wartime trauma is never very far away.

I'd like to thank my lovely Rooftop ladies for encouraging me to keep writing!

Again, the soundtrack song is a bit anachronistic but I love the lyrics- it's "After the Storm" by Mumford & Sons:

_And I took you by the hand_  
><em>And we stood tall,<em>  
><em>And remembered our own land,<em>  
><em>What we lived for.<em>

_But there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears._  
><em>And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears<em>  
><em>Get over your hill and see what you find there,<em>  
><em>With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.<em>

* * *

><p>We didn't mention the incident during the following days, although there was still some tension in the air that hadn't been there before, and I often found Mick staring into space with narrowed eyes, wondering what was going behind that high forehead but convinced he would never let on anything if I pestered him with prodding questions.<p>

I wished I had that kind of patience that seemed to have come so natural to him when I had retreated into the cage after Philip's death. I wanted things to change fast, like a child who dreams of a magic wand to bring about transformation in the blink of an eye. And I wanted to be able to _do _something to make him better, even if I knew exactly that certain things simply need time to develop and, hopefully, eventually improve.

Loath to risk another confrontation, I tried to act as if nothing had happened, and we went about our little daily rituals as usual. After a short rainy period, autumn was showing its glorious side, regaling us with golden sunlit days, balmy temperatures and splendidly coloured foliage.

Glad to escape the last days' confinement inside the house, we decided to take what might be this year's last chance at a picnic in the park. It was pleasantly warm, and Mick had rolled up the sleeves of his olive-green shirt to soak up as much of the sunlight as he could. He needed to feel the elements whenever he could, sun on his bare skin, wind in his hair, even rain in his face. And it did him a world of good, even if the somewhat tamed and domesticated weather in the city couldn't really compare to the onslaught of sun and wind and waves he'd been used to. The pale and almost translucent complexion of the day we had met again had given way to a healthy and very becoming bronzy sheen. Thankfully he had done away with that terribly neat army hairstyle as soon as he had managed to be discharged, and his hair had grown back into unruly black wavelets that were so much more like him.

A lively breeze, amazingly without that typical wintry sting it usually carries in autumn, rustled the trees and seemed to lift our spirits, too, as we walked down our favourite path in the park, leading along a bubbling little stream towards a quiet sunlit clearing surrounded by trees with leaves blazing red and golden. Suddenly I was at ease again, confident that we would manage to sort out our issues with time, and as I glanced at Mick with a smile, I found him smiling to himself, too, calmly serene and almost contented, as if he was beginning to settle into his new situation at last.

It was a wonderful day altogether, with the splendid weather and overall good mood. Mick even told me some stories from back when he had worked on various fishing boats and from his early days on the Trobriands. I listened, spellbound. His usually quiet face became adorably agitated as he spoke of some of his wilder adventures, his captivating green eyes sparkled with life. All the bitterness seemed to be gone, at least for the moment, and he looked nearly unchanged from the ruggedly easy-going pearl trader with his newly acquired tan and the loose-fitting open-necked shirt that showed just a hint of the dark curly hair covering his chest. Only the crutches and the pinned-up trouser leg disturbed that illusion, but I quickly brushed the thought away, resolving to enjoy this precious happy time without reserve.

We had dinner at a nearby restaurant to top off the day and returned home way after dark. I remembered that I had forgotten to look up something for the first lecture I'd have to give the following week while Mick went into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Realizing that I needed a book I thought I had left on my bedside table, I got up from my desk and briskly went over to the bedroom. When I flung open the door, Mick was sitting on the edge of the bed in his underpants and the T-shirt that served as his pajama top, hastily throwing the olive-green shirt he had just taken off over his lap.

So he still felt the need to cover himself up when I was around. Why couldn't he just trust me that I would not be put off by the sight of his injury?

"Please let me see it", I said firmly.

"What?" He looked at me, questioningly and a bit alarmed.

"Your leg. I want you to show me."

"Evelyn … you … I don't …"

"Mick." I sat next to him on the bed, gently touching his hand that held the shirt in place over his mangled leg as if he feared I'd whisk it away without a warning. "Why are you so keen on keeping that from me? You know that I love you, and whatever this looks like, it won't make any difference."

He took my hand and pressed it against his cheek, closing his eyes for a moment.

"It's not _revolting _or anything, if that's what you think. It's just …I took me quite some time to get used to it myself. Well, sort of. If you can ever really get used to … being three quarters of a leg short of a normal life." A little wistful smile played around his lips. "And it feels … strange to show that to someone else, even if that someone is you. I mean, of course I've had lots of doctors and nurses seeing it, but that's their job … it's something completely different with the person you love. I know it will be … hard for you, no matter what you say now. Do you think I haven't noticed how you sometimes look at me and wish you'd got me back in one piece?"

"I don't …", I began to protest weakly.

He looked at me sideways. "Of course you do. I mean, that's just natural, isn't it? Believe me, I keep wishing all the time that this bullet hadn't hit me as it did. You know, it didn't look all that bad at first … it had gone cleanly through the flesh, just above the knee, didn't even wreck the joint. Would have given me some trouble walking for some time and perhaps a bit of pain when the weather changed, but it wasn't really grave. I'd seen far worse injuries than that among my comrades. And then I got that stupid infection." He gave a little resigned shrug.

"Almost killed me. I was unconscious for days, running a very high fever, and they decided to take it off without my consent. When they told me after I'd finally woken up, I thought I'd rather have kicked the bucket than getting my leg cut off", he said. I shuddered at the notion, but of course he would have felt this way when he came around to the shattering realization that there was no chance to go back to the life he had loved, a life that depended fully on his physical abilities.

His candid, laconic account of those traumatic events overwhelmed me so much that I couldn't speak at first, or even weep. I just sat there, listening with widened eyes. How sadly ironic to get away with a grazing shot only to be crippled by germs.

"I'm glad you didn't kick the bucket, though", I managed to say eventually with a quivering smile.

"Me too … now." He shifted a bit to turn towards me and lowered his head to lay his cheek against mine, his long eyelashes tickling my face as his soft lips found the corner of my mouth. I shut my eyes, took his hands and held them close to my heart.

The olive-green shirt slid to the floor unnoticed.


	2. Sunny Morning

Golden sunlight was flooding the room when I awoke the next morning. Mick was still sleeping next to me, his regular breathing the only sound in the room. His face looked so young when he slept, vulnerable and innocent, almost like the little boy he must have once been with his tousled dark hair, lying on his side, hugging a corner of the bedding.

I couldn't resist to gently stroke the beautiful outline of his cheekbone with the tip of my finger, then traced the perfect intricate whorls of his ear, the narrow white scar that ran through his left eyebrow and the other one above the right corner of his mouth. A dreamy smile spread across his face. I bent over to kiss him on the forehead, and he slowly opened his eyes, lazily blinking into the light.

He reached out for me, pulling me over, and my knee accidentally brushed against his naked thigh. His right one.

I stiffened for a moment, fearing he'd back away again, surprised to feel his bare skin.

I hadn't been aware that he had not bothered to put on his pajama bottoms last night, something which he had usually been very careful to do. He had slipped into bed while I'd gone back to my study to turn off the lights and to be alone with my thoughts for a few moments.

After all it had been something of a shock to actually see that what had once been a muscular, well-shaped, suntanned leg now ended mid-thigh bluntly. I remained calm outwardly but swallowed hard at the sight, trying not to think of all the times I had seen him use that leg - walking, swimming, diving, working. Sitting cross-legged in the sand, opening a pearl shell. Scratching his knee unconsciously as he often did. Teaching me to dance.

But as far as I could judge it, that army surgeon had done a good job, the sutures had healed well and cleanly, leaving narrow pink traces that would fade to inconspicuous white over time. I hoped the dreadful memories that went along with this would also fade into oblivion or at least lose their power over him one day.

Now he took my hand and placed it on said thigh, jolting me back into the present. Taken aback, I didn't dare move my hand one bit.

"Are you sure?" I asked cautiously.

He simply nodded, giving me an intense look from those amazing golden-green eyes. "If you want to", he added as an afterthought.

I ran a hand over the warm hairy skin gingerly, hesitating for a moment before touching the scars. They felt different, smooth and a little waxy. Mick drew an audible breath, and I froze again.

"Does it hurt?"

"Not at all. It feels strange though to be touched there by you. But in a good way."

I cupped my hand around the scar tissue, relieved that this great taboo between us had finally been broken.

Abruptly, he sat up to take off his T-shirt, carelessly throwing it out of the bed, then reached for the straps of my nightie to slide it over my head, dropping it to the floor. I gasped with surprise while a sudden flame ignited inside me. His disfigured leg was merely another imperfection now, like the small scars on his face or the fact that his eyes were quite different in size and shape. Imperfections that made me love him even more, that made him perfect to me in the first place.

I lay back down beside him, moulding my body against his, feeling sheltered and safe in his embrace, my nose against his chest, one my hands on his shoulder, one of his on my backside, the other one teasing my breast.

"You were right last week, I think", he said in a low gravelly voice that made me shiver. "About making love, I mean."

I smiled as I felt something solid push against me further down. "Yeah … I guess I was."


End file.
